


Show Me Where My Armor Ends

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Heist, M/M, Slow Burn, loosely based on six of crows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 13:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5968816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know,” Monty interjects, “I’m pretty sure co-workers don’t start hating each other until a week into the job, but you two? You guys definitely have a head start.”</p><p>The statement is met with disgruntled scoffs, a resounding <i>as if!</i> The realization that they are in fact, agreeing with each other on something, leads to a scowl on Bellamy’s part and an impressive glower on Clarke’s. Figures.</p><p>Or: Bellamy Blake needs an architect to pull off one last heist. He may have gotten more than he bargained for with Clarke Griffin, though it’d probably be easier if he stopped thinking about kissing her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me Where My Armor Ends

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been wanting to write a heist fic for AGES now, but I only got around to doing it recently because I'm the worst procrastinator there is. Loosely based on six of crows, but you don't have to have read the book to understand this.

 

Bellamy’s plan- as most of his plans do, really- backfires  _ spectacularly _ the minute Clarke Griffin walks through the door. 

There’s a flicker of recognition in her eyes when she looks over at him, hardening into something akin to suspicion. Her gaze lingers a little too long on the arch of his collarbone, swirling black ink hidden carefully under the collar of his thin button down shirt, the jut of his hip where his gun holster would normally be.

And since there’s no point in hiding- not anymore, anyway- he tilts his head, shows his teeth. Her responding scowl is equally as ferocious.

She turns away after a beat, stiff, crease between her brows deepening as she goes about with her lesson. He smirks when he hears the unmistakable sound of chalk snapping in between her fingers, oddly smug at the thought of inspiring such a reaction from her.

“Miss Griffin,” he greets, after the classroom has emptied out and there’s nothing between them but a layer of oppressive, muggy heat bearing down against the back of his neck, “how would you like--”

“I know who you are, silvertongue.” she interrupts, acidic, “I want nothing to do with you.”

“But I haven’t even given you the pitch yet.” he sighs, trying to keep the note of amusement from showing in his voice, “It was really convincing too.”

Her smile is sickly sweet, body held tense like the coiling of a viper before it strikes out, “I don’t doubt that, no.”

“Good.” Bellamy continues, briefly wonders if the scrunch of her forehead is a permanent fixture or just the result of his presence, “As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted,  _ Clarke _ \--” She flinches at that, and he pauses, trying to rein in his exasperation, “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you prefer your highness? Queen of all the lands, o’captain, my captain--”

She glowers, grinds her teeth at the pointed look he shoots her. “I hate that  _ you lot _ know who I am.”

“Hate to break it to you, Princess,” he drawls, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting (a nervous tic that Octavia always like to call him out on), “but you’re not exactly inconspicuous, or anything.”

Clarke shrugs, deliberately obtuse, “What use do you have for a humble architect?”

“You’re a professor, too.” he reminds her. “But that’s not the point. What I’m offering you is an obscene amount of money in exchange for your expertise and participation.”

“Pray tell,” she says, deliberately careful though it’s impossible to miss the gleam of interest in her eyes, “what is it  _ exactly  _ do you need my expertise on?”

“The ice court.” he goes, nonchalant, biting back a smile at her sharp intake of breath. If there was one thing he was ascertain about it when it came to people, it was this: everything boiled down to either greed or hubris, and Clarke Griffin was no exception. “It’s a fortress, and I have a prisoner I need to retrieve for one very illustrious commander.”

A shadow falls over her face, oppressive heat giving way to the moment of held breath right before a the start of a thunderstorm, “Lexa.”

Bellamy frowns at the abrupt change of pace, hastens to add, “The prisoner was from Trikru. A deserter, it seems. I’m not surprised that she wants to deal with him on her own.”

“You can’t trust her.” she says lowly, and there’s a edge to a voice that he can only describe as savage, “I can’t-- no. Absolutely not. You’re going to have to start looking for another architect.”

He startles when she begins to herd him towards the door, surprisingly strong even when he digs his heels into the ground, stubbornly declares through clenched teeth, “Maybe you need some time to consider this.”

Clarke glares, jaw set and shoulder digging into his back when she gives him a hard shove, making him stumble over the threshold of the door. “There are some things even  _ you  _ can’t convince me of, silvertongue.”

“That’s not my name.” he snaps, throwing out a hand to brace up against the door and keep it from slamming shut, “Stop calling me that.”

(He doesn’t recognize the venom in his voice, the anger. He-- Bellamy had always liked the notoriety, the nickname he earned for himself around these parts. People said it with awe in their voices, reverence. But there was something about the way she spit his name that made him want to prove her wrong, to show that he was more than a mouthpiece who spewed pretty words just so he could mold them into something new.  _ My words can turn tides,  _ he nearly tells her,  _ but that’s not all. _ )

“Bellamy.” he admits, rough, regretting the words the second it leaves his lips. “My name is Bellamy, okay?”

She nods, testing the words out against her tongue, dragging it out with the click of her teeth. Then, her the look in her eyes softening imperceptibly, she adds, “Here’s a tip, Bellamy. I would tread carefully if I were you.”

He wets his lips, forces down the sense of unease that claws at his throat, “How much do I owe you for those sage words of wisdom?”

“First one’s free.” she tells him, soft and a little sad, before the door clicks shut.

 

+

Bellamy Blake turns twenty and gets a new name. 

They don’t know what to do with him, not at first. Skaikru was unaccustomed to taking in untrained recruits- let alone one from the streets- but he was sharp and fast and determined, always willing to take on the most dangerous of tasks for the mere promise of a few extra coins.

He was the best at talking though, they soon realised. He could make anyone believe anything with the upturn of his mouth and the twist of his tongue and when word began to spread about his skills, the name had stuck. And, well. He didn’t like the work, but he never hated the name. Not at first.

Then Octavia Blake turns seventeen, and they give her a new name too, with a set of knives and a pair of gloves and when she returns with blood under her fingernails, his stomach churns and, and--

Bellamy Blake turns twenty one, and he starts plotting for an escape route.

 

+

Octavia’s sharpening her knives when he gets back- one of the little things she did whenever she got anxious- which means it’s probably not a good time to tell her about Clarke. 

“How did it go?” she calls out when he breezes past, shaking rainwater out of his hair and cursing violently under his breath. The rain had started up unexpectedly just as he was heading back to the dropship, and while there was the option of waiting it out at the university, he had opted to brave it instead. Bellamy was impatient that way.

“Badly,” he declares, flat, stripping off his shirt in one smooth motion. He can make out the clatter of knives from the other room, the screech of the chair when she pushes it back. He shrugs on a shirt, kicks off his muddy boots carelessly before slumping down onto his bed.

“So, what? You’re just going to sit around and sulk about it?”

“Maybe.” he says, just to be difficult. “Besides, it’s not like it’s  _ hard  _ to get another architect on board.”

“Another architect who has been to the ice court? Sure, I bet the city is swimming in those.” she huffs, letting her head thump back against the door frame, “This is a disaster just waiting to happen, Bell.”

He runs his palm over his face, scrubbing the other through his hair frustratedly, “I’ll work something out. You-- look, I don’t want you worrying about this. I’ll fix it.”

Octavia lets out a shaky exhale, jostling his arm when she plops down beside him. The bed groans under their combined weight, sags when she grips his hand, tight enough to bruise. “We don’t have to do this, you know. We can figure out another way to get the money. I can take on a few more tasks from Indra--”

“ _ No _ .” he cuts in vehemently, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting. “No more loose ends, O. We do this for Lexa, we collect the reward money and we leave. This is our only chance and we’re taking it.”

“You know,” she replies, dry. “For someone who’s only twenty three, you’re acting like a real parental figure right now.” She squeezes his palm at that though, lips twisting up to smile at his indignant expression, “Are you going to ground me too?”

“Shut up.” he mutters, the looming sense of dread pushing down on his chest momentarily easing when she flicks at his forehead playfully, dodging his retaliating swipe easily.  _ Brat _ .

“Seriously, though.” Octavia continues, rolling off his bed in one smooth motion and sheathing the knife at her hip that managed to wiggle free in their tussle, “What are you going to do now?” 

Bellamy shrugs, pushes off from the bed with his elbows, “Look for other architects, I suppose. Do some research before Monty gets back to help me with this.”

“Okay,” Octavia nods. “I have an errand to run for Indra, but I’ll be back by midnight.”

_ Hopefully,  _ she doesn’t say. He swallows, turns his face away before pressing a kiss against her temple, “Stay safe.”

“I always do.” Octavia mutters, before ducking away and out of sight.

His plan was to start going through their archives for a replacement architect immediately- maybe stop by Raven’s workshop to check on her, too- but he finds himself looking at the intel Monty gathered for him on Clarke Griffin instead, trying to work out the connection between her and Lexa. None of the information gathered even suggests that they knew each other, let alone had a falling out. Bellamy rolls out the crick in his neck, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. There has to be  _ something  _ he can use.

He’s not sure how long he spends rifling through papers and scratching down his observations in the threadbare notebook Octavia gave him for his last birthday, but he jolts awake sometime around three in the morning, spine screaming in protest. Bellamy winces, peels off the sheet of paper stuck against his cheek. His throat feels parched, legs prickly and numb and he can barely make out the sound of voices drifting from the kitchen.

_ Octavia _ , he thinks, woozy, stumbling when he rises to his feet. Maybe Monty’s back too, and they decided to make a cup of chocolate before turning in. It was a tradition of sorts between the both of them considering their shared love for desserts and all things sweet.

“O?” he calls out, voice hoarse from hours of disuse, rounding the corner and stopping dead in his tracks at the sight before him.  

Octavia perched on the counter, cup of chocolate in hand, accompanied by Monty, Raven, Miller and one Clarke Griffin. Bellamy blinks, tries valiantly to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

“What’s going on?” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. He realises, belatedly, that he must have divested himself of his shirt when he was half-asleep and he can’t help but flush a little under Raven’s scrutiny.

Clarke snorts, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture, “Your sister is a lot more convincing than you are, that’s what.”

“You came to  _ us _ .” Octavia replies, terse, baring her teeth when Clarke meets her gaze unflinchingly. “You’re the one who came looking for Bel-- silvertongue.”

_ She already knows my name,  _ he nearly says before catching himself just in time.

“Doesn’t matter what name she knows us by.” he cuts in, barreling on despite Octavia’s vocal protests, “We can silence her just as easily if she betrays us anyway.”

“I’m not the one without honor.” she starts, the corners of her mouth twitching like she’s unsure if she wants to smile or snarl, “That one happens to be your client.”

Bellamy shrugs, tries not to shiver at the sudden rush of cold air stinging his bare skin. “So why are you here then?”

“I need the money.” she says, steady. The way her fingers clamp down on her knee, vise-like, suggests otherwise but Bellamy’s not going to call her out on it. Not yet, anyway. If anything, it just gives him more of a reason to be more cautious towards her from now on.

(There’s a small, niggling part of him that is unnerved at how she had witnessed his small moment of weakness before too, but he forces the thought away.)

They make a round of introductions, Raven and Octavia more wary than most, Miller deceptively casual slouched over in his chair, but alert too. Neither of them like bringing new players into the game, but it’s a necessary evil when it came to large-scale heists like this one.

“So,” Clarke says brightly after all has been said and done, unfurling a peeling, yellowed map that she had stashed in her boot, “shall we get started?”

 

+

It’s a little strange, having to get used to a new presence in the dropship. Skaikru has a constant revolving door of new recruits and reinstated ones, but they’ve never encroached on Bellamy’s space and so he never cared, but, well. It’s different with Clarke. 

She leaves behind lipstick stains on their chipped mugs, hair pins that he always finds in some weird cranny of his room. There’s a milk carton by the corner of the living room that he’s began to think of as hers, and it’s her messy scrawl that graces their maps and finalized plans.

For some weird- alright, maybe not so unfathomable reason, it chafes against him.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Bellamy snaps, reaching past her to grab his usual mug. There’s a small, pink shimmer by the edge, he discovers, and he slams the mug down in the sink in a sheer fit of annoyance.

“Monty needed my help to go over some plans.” she retorts, lip curling to sneer at him. “It’s not like I want to be here, suffering in your god-awful presence.”

That’s the thing about Clarke: she doesn’t give in either. In fact, he’s pretty sure that’s what got them in this mess in the first place. Her constant insistence on doing things  _ her  _ way has led to some epic blowups, mostly on his part. Bellamy’s used to being in charge. It’s discomforting to have someone question his every move, to try and do things  _ better  _ instead of same.

“Well, you’re no charmer yourself.” he goes, deliberately pleasant in a way that he knows she hates. True to form, a muscle in her jaw twitches at his tone, and he smiles wider. “Your friends must all have the patience of saints.”

“You know,” Monty interjects, “I’m pretty sure co-workers don’t start hating each other until a week into the job, but you two? You guys definitely have a head start.”

The statement is met with disgruntled scoffs, a resounding  _ as if!  _ The realization that they are in fact, agreeing with each other on something, leads to a scowl on Bellamy’s part and an impressive glower on Clarke’s. Figures.

“Fine, I’ll do us all a favor and leave.” he huffs, deciding to just forgo his morning cup of coffee instead. “I have to get down to the docks anyway.”

“What for?” Clarke frowns, setting down the nub of charcoal onto the table. Her fingers are stained black, smudge marks travelling all the way down to her elbow. Honestly, Bellamy thinks irritably. It’s like she never looks in a mirror, or something. He pushes down the urge to rub them off with his thumb.

“I have to secure a boat for our little jaunt down to the ice court. What, did you think we could just waltz in on foot?”

“I’ll go with you.” she says instead, uncrossing her legs fluidly and sliding off the stool. “I know what kind of boats make their way in and out of there.”

“I wasn’t asking for help.” he mutters, but kicks open the door for her anyway.

Clarke’s surprisingly quiet as they make their way down to the docks, hood drawn up so all he can see from the corner of his eye is a curtain of blonde hair. Bellamy’s almost surprised by how subdued she is, until she goes, “So, about Miller.”

He tenses, shoves his hands into the pocket of his jacket. The weight of the gun bumping up against his hand at the motion makes him feel strangely reassured. “What about him?”

“How have I not heard of him before?” she questions, biting at her lip, looking almost frustrated by this development. “I’ve heard about everyone else, or at least, recognized everyone to a certain extent. But it’s radio silent on his end. I don’t even know what he  _ does. _ ”

Bellamy smirks, lifts a shoulder lazily. “Isn’t that all the more dangerous, though?”

“I don’t like being kept in the dark.” Clarke scowls, her elbow bumping up against his in her indignation. “I know you think it’s funny, but--”

“You like to know all the pieces on the chessboard, I know.” Bellamy interrupts, amused. The scrunch in her brow deepens, and he has to resist the urge to laugh.

“If you don’t  _ want  _ to tell me--”

“It’s simple, Clarke.” he continues, catching a glimpse of her unnerved expression at the use of her name instead of the less than pleasant nicknames he coined for her over the last few weeks. “Octavia fights and Raven builds, Monty hacks and Miller steals. And as for me, well. You know about that already, don’t you?”

Her gaze is cool and steady when it meets his, unwavering. “I get the gist, yes.”

“Good.” he says, dry, as they draw up to the docks, wind whipping her hair into a frenzy. “So now that your curiosity is satisfied, shall we focus on picking out a boat?”

“The one on the furthest left.” she goes, assured. “It’ll pass as a merchant ship, the ice nation gets lots of those.”

He pulls his hands out of his pockets, squints into the horizon. It’s small, plain. Unassuming. The kind of ship that no one would even spare a second glance. Bellamy wets his lips, asks, “Had a lot of dealings with the ice nation before, I take it?”

“You could say that.” Clarke goes, nonchalant. “Six months in their prison tends to do that.” Then, at his shell-shocked expression, adds rather wryly, “You like to know all the pieces on your chessboard too, don’t you?”

And without a backward glance, she flounces off towards the ship, leaving him trailing behind her, still gaping.

 

+

Bellamy’s not as nervous as he should be on the day they set sail. 

Octavia’s worried enough for the both of them anyway, while he’s filled with a sort of grim resolve that seems to transcend everything else. Hitching his duffel bag higher up against his shoulder, he breaks into a jog, barely making it a few paces before he’s nearly bowled over by the force of Raven’s cane striking the ground.

“I told you to wait up.” Raven says, accusatory, the cane’s head digging into the curve of his hip. He scowls, pushes it off him gently. “Are you really trying to impale me right now?”

“Maybe.” she replies without missing a beat, her hand stroking the raven’s head absentmindedly. “Didn’t you hear me yelling?”

“I can’t hear anything over this wind.” he grouches, slowing his pace ever so slightly. He wouldn’t put it past her to break his leg with the way she waved her cane around. Made of reinforced steel and gifted to her from Monty after the accident, Raven never went anywhere without it. It was lightweight enough for her to carry around, but also able to shatter bones with just a flick of her wrist. Terrifying yet apt.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, reminding himself to keep his tone conversational. Anything gentler bordered on sympathy, and Raven hated to be on the receiving end of any kind of pity.

She rolls her eyes, digs her elbow into his ribs. “I’m good, thanks. You don’t have to mother hen me, Bellamy. Don’t you have your hands full with Octavia?”

“It was just a question _. _ ”

“Yeah, well. Why don’t you waste your energy worrying about the Princess instead.” Raven laughs, ponytail smacking him in the face and making him grunt in annoyance, “She brought a  _ suitcase  _ on board, I think. I saw her wheeling it past the dropship.”

Bellamy groans, has to make a concentrated effort to keep his annoyance from showing. It probably wouldn’t be good to start off a job by getting into yet another screaming match with Clarke. “I’m not surprised, at this point.” 

“Well, it’s not like you have to put up with her much longer.” she goes, and with a forced smile, “Or me either, for that matter. You’re leaving after this job, aren’t you?”

He swallows, tries to talk past the lump in his throat. “I have to. I can’t,” he pauses, scrambling for the words that seem to evade him at every turn. Inhaling sharply, the cool air calms his head, if only for a little while, and he settles for a plaintive, “We can’t stay any longer.”

“I know.” Raven murmurs, blinking rapidly and looking away when he glances over at her. “We’ll get one last drink together before you go, okay?”

“I’d probably miss you most.” he admits, in a rare moment of vulnerability, and he’s not sure if she might actually hug him or punch him.

“Yeah? I won’t miss you at all.” she says after a beat, and he slings an arm over her shoulders, ruffles her hair until she squawks and nearly pushes him over.

“Goddamn asshole.”

“You’re not any better.” he tells her as they board the ramp, the sound of the wind howling in his ears dimming when he closes the door of the ship.

“Welcome to the S.S Skaikru.” Raven remarks, droll, and almost as if it was waiting for her to say so, the ship sets off, pushing off into the distance until all that Bellamy can make out of the dropship is its insignia painted on the roof, flashing in the sunlight.

 

+

On the nights he can’t sleep, Bellamy goes up to the deck to squint at whatever reading material he happens to bring with him on the job. Sometimes Miller joins him too, sipping from his flask all while grumbling in low tones about everyone else on the crew. 

Except Monty. Miller never talks about Monty, he talks  _ to  _ Monty. Which is, you know. Interesting, if Bellamy had the time to sit down and really analyse all of it.

So he doesn’t think much of it when he hears the sound of footfalls on the stairs, just goes, “You’re missing the part where Buck joins the wolf pack.” because he’s pretty sure Miller is as invested in this book as he is, judging by his distress over Thornton’s death.

“You know, I’ve always wondered how your eyesight got to be so terrible.”

He frowns, setting the book down onto his lap. “You’re still up?”

“Yeah.” Clarke mutters, settling down in the chair next to his. The shadows under her eyes are especially pronounced and her hair is limp around her face, clearly exhausted. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I would come up here.”

“Well, tough luck.” he says, and at her confused expression, adds, “Considering my mere presence aggravates you, I don’t think you’ll be getting much sleep if you stay.”

She wrinkles her nose, “Or you could always read that boring book out loud. I’m sure I’ll fall asleep in seconds.”

“It’s not  _ boring _ .” Bellamy protests hotly, but at the arch of her eyebrow, cracks open the book defiantly, skimming back to the first chapter and reading without any sort of preamble. He makes it a point not to look at her while he does it- cheeks stupidly hot- but he catches a glimpse of her head lolling back sometime around chapter three.

“Only Spitz quivered and bristled--” he stops at the sound of her snores, reaches out to nudge her knee with the toe of his boot, “you’re going to catch a cold if you stay out here all night. Get up, will you?”

The only response he get is a sleepy mumble, the swat of her hand when he tries to poke at her shoulder instead. Irritated, he contemplates grabbing a bucket of water to splash her awake but it seems almost cruel to do so when she clearly needs the sleep.

Cursing under his breath, Bellamy stares down at her prone form. She looks years younger without the tense set of lines against her face, smaller too. He had always looked at her as a force of nature- something too big and tremendous for him to understand- but in this moment he’s reminded that she too, was just a person.  _ No one’s ever infallible _ , he thinks,  _ not even Clarke Griffin. _

A part of him is tempted to just leave her there- he owes her nothing, after all- but he finds himself dismissing that option instead, scrambling to think of others. He could pick her up and carry her to her room, though he’d highly doubt Clarke would appreciate it. Plus, the gesture itself felt far too intimate for his liking.

Sighing, Bellamy unzips his jacket, drapes it over her shoulders carefully. He feels strangely bare without the thick weight of it against his arms, the press of the zips against his torso. They had given him the jacket after his first successful job, and he had hardly taken it off ever since.

“Don’t say I didn’t try.” he announces, the words lost in the spray of seawater and the creaking of the ship, and before he can lose his nerve, “But if you’re still somehow awake and listening, uhm. Goodnight, Clarke.”

He backs up so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet in the process, but he still manages to catch a glimpse of her curling up into his jacket anyway, making snuffling noises when she presses her face against the fabric.

It makes him smile- just a little- as he descends the steps, but he refuses to dwell on why. It would probably lead to a sleepless night if he did, anyway.

 

+

The storm arrives on a Tuesday, and everything goes wrong from there.

His first instinct- his only instinct, really- is to get Octavia to safety. He screams for her when water begins to flood the ship, lapping at his ankles and slamming him up against walls, her name still caught in his throat--

Then he hears her voice in his ear, her breath against the back of his neck when she grapples for his hand and everything comes back into focus.

“Get to the lifeboat.” Bellamy chokes out, pushing her up the stairs, trying to breathe past the panic that seems to have lodged itself in his lungs. Her nails scrabble against his forearm when he tries to pull away, nearly dislodging his arm with the force of it.

“What about you?” she screams and he shakes his head, ekes out from between teeth, “I have to go back for them.”

He thinks she might have said something in response,  _ no _ or maybe  _ don’t go,  _ but he’s already racing down the corridor, skidding all over the place in his effort to stay upright. Monty and Miller’s rooms are blessedly empty, the ship shrieking painfully loud in his ears when he rounds the corner, catches a glimpse of a dark ponytail--

She collapses against his chest and he grabs onto her legs, scooping her up despite the cry of pain. “The cane,” Raven breathes, fumbling for something in the darkness he can’t see, seemingly oblivious to the shuddering of the ship, wooden boards snapping and pushing up like broken, jagged swords.

“Leave it!” he snarls, pounding forward. They make it to the stairs, and he forces her up with a hand pressed against her lower back, a rush of water causing him to stagger briefly, spitting salt out of his mouth and heaving air into his lungs.

And in the midst of everything breaking apart around them, he hears his name.

_ Clarke,  _ and he’s not sure if he’s actually screaming her name or if it’s all in his head, a bellow or just a exhale in the dark. She’s running, just a few paces away from him and he surges forward too, meets her in the middle. Their fingers tangle. The ground below him trembles.

Then everything rips apart, and the water pulls him under.

 

+

Bellamy learned how to swim when he was twelve. 

There had been a lake right by his house, infinite and sprawling and so deep you couldn’t see the bottom. Octavia used to have nightmares about it, and he promised her that he would retrieve her the smoothest rock from the bottom of the lake, anything to make her stop crying.

But it was colder and darker than he expected, limbs stiff and pulse thundering in his ears, and by the time his mother had pulled him out, screaming and pounding the water out of his lungs, he was shaking so hard he could barely gasp out her name.

So this time, this time when the air hits his lungs and the pressure on his chest eases, the words tear out of his throat and he’s breathing,  _ breathing _ \--

“Oh thank god.” Clarke sobs, her hair tickling against his cheek and her arm tightening over his chest, “Bellamy,  _ please _ . I need you to swim.”

He kicks out mechanically, treading water and loosening from her hold. Darkness swallows his vision instantly, Clarke giving a startled cry before he’s yanked up roughly, strength surging through his limbs in spurts and flashes.

“ _ Clarke _ ,” he rasps, shivering so hard he nearly bites down on his tongue, “are you-- are you okay?”

She gives another choked sob, and he pulls closer, sliding a hand over hip and propelling her forward. “I need-- I need you to stay conscious, okay? We have to get through this. We have to find land.”

Bellamy nods, too exhausted to speak and they’re moving again, slowly but surely.

He’s not sure how long they swim for. Hours, perhaps. It’s all instinct at this point, with him pushing forward when she begins to slow and vice versa, synchronous. She begins to drop off when the skies start to darken, and he jostles her gently, murmurs, “Don’t fall asleep on me now. I need you awake.”

“I’m so tired.” she mumbles, and her lips taste like salt when they brush up against the corners of his slightly. “Say something stupid, won’t you? I rather be angry than exhausted.”

He laughs, wincing at the pain that flares up his throat at that. “No way. There’s no place to run if I piss you off now.”

“True.” Clarke snorts, her voice woozy and slurred with sleep. “I could drown you and make it look like an accident. No one would ever know.”

“I wouldn’t put it pass you.” he agrees, and they lapse back into silence soon after, Clarke swaying in his grip, his fingers pruny against the flare of her waist.

Then, mostly for something to do, he begins to hum.

It’s stupid, he knows, dehydrating and a waste of energy too, but. Clarke’s legs are barely kicking, head lolling against his shoulder and he’s more than aware that the chances of survival decreases significantly when you’re carrying dead weight. It’s probably a little harder to fall asleep when you have someone at your ear, so.

“Again.” she says, sudden, her voice rough and worn but louder than before.  _ Good. _

Bellamy clears his throat, starts up again. It’s a lullaby his mother used to sing to him as a child, something he kept for himself throughout the years. He never shared it with Octavia, oddly possessive of it as it was. It felt like his and only his, somehow.

“You’re, you’re where the light began.” His voice shakes and his rhythm is shit, but the force of her kicks seem to intensify, her free hand arcing through the water and carrying them forward, “Just one last time, again.”

“Bellamy Blake,” she shakes her head, strands of hair poking into his eyes and making him scowl, “you are a  _ terrible  _ singer.”

He closes his eyes, bites down on a smile when the water lurches them forward, closer and closer to something hopeful, “I aim to please.”

 

+

The first thing Clarke does when they find land is to vomit. On him, naturally. 

He waves away her apologies, too tired to even lift up his arms to peel the shirt off. The sand beneath him burns, scrapes against his wet skin when he finally summons the energy to stagger to his feet. Clarke offers her hand, and they limp off the beach together and into the trees.

“It’s getting dark,” she croaks, “we have to find shelter.”

“Water.” he disagrees, and she shoots him a venomous glare in return, the tilt of her chin so stubborn and familiar that he can’t help but break into a wheezy laugh. She’s never going to make things easy for him, he realises. But it doesn’t bother him as it should, anymore.

“Someplace warm,” she says finally, a full-body shudder wracking her body. He hesitates for all of five seconds before he garners the courage to run his fingers down the length of her arm, rubbing soft circles into the soaked material of her jacket.

She laughs, and his cheeks pink involuntarily. “I’m trying to  _ help,  _ for the love of god--”

“It’s not going to help much when I’m still in my wet clothes.” Clarke points out, leaning into his side. “But thank you, for trying.”

“Shut up.” he mutters, words strangely lacking heat. It’s his jacket, to be precise, the too-long sleeves going past her wrists so only her fingers poke out, nails bitten short with bits of sand caught underneath it. Octavia kept her nails short, too, more out of necessity than anything else. He brushes the thought away, forces himself to focus on the situation at hand instead. Survive first, worry about his sister after.

They find a lake first, the remnants of a camping site after. Clarke insists that it’s a good thing- they can’t be too far off from civilisation, then- and he gathers the leftover water canteens, a length of torn tent fabric. He was hoping for food, but it looks like they’d have to settle that for themselves.

Bellamy stumbles upon the small cave just before nightfall- more of an outcropping of rock rather than anything else- but it’s not like they have a lot of options anyway. He drops the tent fabric onto the ground, straps one of the water canteens to his belt, “You can take the blanket, I’m not nearly as cold--” he stops abruptly at the realisation that she’s not even listening, too fixated with unbuckling her belt. “What the hell are you doing?”

She doesn’t answer, just yanks her shirt off with a flourish and he nearly gives himself whiplash from turning away so quickly, “ _ Clarke _ .”

“We need to conserve body heat.” she says coolly, though there seems to be a hint of amusement in there, too. “Do you want to get pneumonia, Bellamy? Don’t you like all your toes?”

“That’s  _ not _ what pneumonia is.” he grumbles, but toes off his boots anyway, still glaring at the curve of rock in front of him.

“I was just checking to see if you were paying attention.” she teases, all innocent. The tent fabric crinkles loudly at that, and he yanks his pants down roughly, keeps his face turned away. Hopefully it’ll be too dark for her to make out how red his face is right now.

“Uh, do I-- do I keep my underwear on?”

There’s a loaded pause, then rather flippantly, she goes, “It’s up to you. I don’t care.”

Her voice cracks on the last word though, betraying her nervousness. He wonders if she knows that he can feel her looking at him, the weight of her gaze pinning him to the spot. Bellamy swallows, runs a palm down his face.

It’s not a big deal. It  _ shouldn’t  _ be a big deal.

“Fine.” he says brusquely, crossing the room in three quick strides before he can over think it, “Scoot, will you? I need the room.”

Clarke scoffs, and he tries not to stare at the bare curve of her shoulder, the spill of her hair over her collarbone, “That’s the whole point of sharing body heat, dumbass. Get in here already.”

“As charming as always,” he snarks, stupidly grateful for the shift back to familiar territory, “how will I ever keep my hands off you?”

“And how will _I_ ever hold myself back from ravishing you?” she goads, deadpan. If her face wasn’t turned away from his, Bellamy’s pretty sure she would have punctuated it with one of her signature eye rolls. “With your pleasant temperament and great wit.”

“I am pretty witty,” he reminds her, lifting his arm and laying it over her waist. “Is this good?”

“It’s fine.” she mumbles, the tense set of her muscles relaxing ever so slightly under his touch. He smiles into the skin of her neck, reaches up carefully to push a stray lock of hair away from his mouth. “G’night.”

This time, when she shivers, he’s not sure if it’s from the cold or the proximity. “You too, Bellamy.”

 

+

Waking up is slow, languid, like yanking a plant up from its roots. 

The first thing he registers is her tangle of blonde hair fluttering against his neck, the shift of her back against his chest. He can feel sweat gathering in the crevices of his collarbone, the sides of his neck, but she’s soft and warm in his arms and it’s been too long since he held someone like this.

Bellamy cracks an eye open to study her-  _ for purely scientific reasons of course _ , his brain hastens to add- and is rather dismayed at the realisation, that she is in fact still fucking gorgeous even with matted hair and grit caught between her lashes. It’s unfair, really.

He jerks away when her eyelids begin to flutter, starts dressing hastily. His shirt still smells faintly of vomit despite the dip it took in the lake yesterday, but there’s nothing much he can do about that. A quick wash would do him some good though, maybe refresh him enough to firm up the half-formed plans he decided on yesterday.

Clarke rouses with a lazy yawn, has the foresight to hold the fabric against her chest when she sits up. Bellamy’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved, at this point.

“I didn’t peg you for an early riser.”

“Well, it’s hard to sleep in when you remember that your plan was shot to pieces in a matter of seconds and everything has gone to shit.” he says pointedly.

She sobers instantly. “Yeah, I remember that part. Do you think-- are they--”

“They made it.” he cuts in, blood going cold at the thought of the alternative. “They’re-- you don’t know them like I do. They’re shrewd, resourceful. Together, they’re pretty much unstoppable.” He restrains a smile, rucks his fingers through his tangled hair. “Knowing them, they’re probably at the ice court already.”

The corners of her lips quirk upwards, “Think they’ll get us a souvenir?”

“If they have the time to stop by the gift shop.” he says, mock-gravely. “Once we find a actual town with a dock, we’re heading there too. That’s where they’ll be expecting us.”

The initial plan had involved executing the heist in five days but he can only hope that with the delay, the others would be more inclined to stay a little longer. Octavia wouldn’t leave without her prize anyway and their absence would definitely hamper the entire operation.

She nods, worrying her lip with her teeth. “Let’s just focus on getting out of here, first.”

“Yeah.” Bellamy clears his throat, turning away when she grabs at her pile of clothes. “I’m going to wash myself off, so. I’ll meet you by the lake.”

He stomps off before she can say anything else, peeling off his shirt and unbuckling his belt as he goes. It’s getting to be a real inconvenience, being stuck with her. Bellamy probably wouldn’t have gotten dressed _again_ if it was any other person but Clarke in the cave with him.

The water feels cool against his skin and he submerges his head under, scrubs furiously at his hair. There’s no point in trying to tame it but he can at least attempt to wash the salt out. He briefly registers a ripple in the water a few paces away from him, years of instinct forcing him to his feet and grappling for a gun by his hip that isn’t there.

“It’s just  _ me _ . God, you’re jumpy.”

He averts his eyes as quickly as he can, sputtering, “What-- did you-- You _ didn’t  _ get dressed?”

“I needed a wash too.” Clarke says, matter-of-fact. “There didn’t seem to be a point.”

“You-- I can’t--” he huffs, lurching a few steps back when he senses movement in the water, “fine, just stay on your side of the lake and face forward.”

She laughs, the sound travelling through the trees. “I never thought you were a prude, Bellamy, but I guess I thought wrong.”

“Am  _ not _ .”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

He speeds up after that, pointedly not looking over when he clambers back onto the bank. There’s a flash of blonde hair in his peripheral vision, darkened by water and the curve of her hips when she swivels over to glance at him. He stumbles, grabbing blindly at a big rock and straightening.  _ Fuck _ .

“You can dry yourself off with what’s left of the tent.” Clarke calls out. “The entire thing is falling apart anyway.”

He grunts in response, dries off quickly and dresses before he can further tempted to peek again. There’s only so much he can take when it’s barely morning.

“Okay, I’m done.” she announces, overly loud and chirpy, like she’s trying to hold back a laugh. He turns around from his perch on the rock warily, taking her in. She’s still wearing his jacket, hair damp and braided away from her face, looking more clean and rested than he expected her to be. It’s nice.

“Nice jacket,” he shrugs, sliding off the rock and trudging forward, taking special pleasure in snapping twigs under his boots and swatting branches away.

“I was planning on returning it.” she says, a tad too quickly, and he slows when he realises she needs to half-jog to catch up with him.

“Keep it.” he tells her, surprising even himself. “You look nice.”

Then he takes off again before he can ponder over what he said to her. All that fresh air must be addling his brains, somehow.

 

+

“Why did you join the skaikru?” 

Bellamy growls, impatiently shoving past another branch and remembering, at the last second, to hold it back so she could pass without it hitting her in the face. “Next.”

“You’ve skipped five questions already.” Clarke scowls. “That’s not how this works.”

He shoots her a dismissive eye roll, “It’s not like you answered my question either. Where were you originally from, Clarke?”

“Do I  _ really _ have to start explaining the birds and the bees to you?” she snarks, exasperated.

“There’s no point to this goddamn charade if you’re not going to participate.” he snaps, kicking out at a stray rock in his path. They’ve been playing at this game for  _ hours  _ now, at a fucked up attempt to pass the time and it’s mostly involved trading quips and skirting around the question. They both excel at that.

“Well, you’re not exactly being all that forthcoming either.” Clarke mutters, and he tries, valiantly, to ignore how wounded she sounds.

He already slipped up once with her. It’s not going to happen again.

They fall back into silence. Bellamy goes back to glaring at the trees, trying to pick out one from the other. The expression on Clarke’s face is distinctly stony, staring at some point in the distance that he can’t seem to see.

He sighs, concedes. “What’s your favorite season?”

She blinks, swivelling to face him with her arm held out to stop him in his tracks. “What did you say?”

His face feels prickly and hot, a restless, thrumming sort of energy rushing through his veins, “I asked you what your favorite season was. Or is that  _ confidential _ information too?”

“You’re impossible.” Clarke retorts, scrunching her nose at him. And for half a second, he thinks she might just leave it at that but almost too quietly, she adds, “Spring. I like seeing the flowers. They’re pretty.” He smiles, picturing her drawing them too, with elbows smudged in colors of pink and white and blue instead of charcoal.

“What do you like to eat?” she asks, hesitant.

“Potatoes.” he answers, without much thought. She gives a scoff of disbelief, but there’s a half-smile on her face, too. As if she actually likes listening to what he has to say.

“Ugh. You could pick  _ anything _ in the world and you choose potatoes? You’re many things, Bellamy, but I didn’t suspect that lacking of imagination was one of them.”

“There’s nothing wrong with potatoes.” he sulks, instinctively crossing his arms over his chest. “They’re versatile for one. Humble, but nutritious. You can eat them six different ways and never get sick of them.”

“Okay.” Clarke snorts, reaching up to push a stubborn lock of hair behind her ear again. “So you’re telling me that if you could- if you had to pick one food item, and you had to eat it all your life- you’d pick potatoes?”

Bellamy shrugs, “Well, when you put it that way.”

She shakes her head, chuckles. “If I had to pick something, it’d be chocolate cake. There used to be a place back home, where my father would take me after school. Their chocolate cake came with a flaky biscuit crust, and I loved it so much I begged my father to take me everyday.”

He hums, offers her his hand at a particular steep hill. “Must have been expensive, though. Your dad must really love you.”

“He did.” she offers, as a means of explanation. There’s no sadness in her voice, just weariness. His chest tightens at the sound of it. Carefully, he squeezes her hand, contemplates offering his apologies.

But then she squeezes back with bruising force and he finds himself saying instead, “My mom used to make these cookies. Fucking life changing cookies. They had a caramel filling, and she would put salt on them. I used to fight Octavia for them, they were  _ that  _ good.”

“I can’t imagine you fighting Octavia on anything.”

“Like I said. Fucking life changing cookies, Clarke. Try to keep up.”

They go on like this for a while, talking about things that were easy. Things that were good.

When it gets dark, she’s the one who suggests they stop for the night by a small cluster of trees, even scaling a tree to retrieve a bird’s nest with  _ eggs  _ in them. He builds a fire, teaches her the exact way to tap a hole in them with a stick before placing it over the fire. 

“How did you get so good at climbing trees?” Bellamy remarks, juggling an egg from one hand to the other.

“I had a lot of practice.” Clarke mumbles, smirking when he slurps a little too enthusiastically and has to wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand.

_ Shut up _ , he tries to eke out, mouth still full, but she cuts in before he can, knee bouncing frantically and eyes darting. “I was from Arkadia. There were trees everywhere, so I’ve known how to climb since I was four.”

He’s never heard of Arkadia before, but he makes sure his face is carefully composed when she glances over at him, clearly nervous. “It’s small, more of a settlement than a big city. My parents were the chancellors, and they set out to make a few trade alliances with the other nearby towns.” Then, after a hefty pause, “I met Lexa on our travels.”

Bellamy swallows down the lump in his throat, sense of foreboding growing with the twitching of her fingers. “I liked her. I  _ trusted  _ her. And then she went back on her word.”

She clutches at her knees, eyes flickering from the fire and back to him. “She let  _ hundreds  _ of my people die. She-- I let them all down. I had to leave, after that. Go somewhere far away.” Her smile is a quick twist of her lips, tasting of bitterness and irony. “TonDC seemed like a good place to start.”

“I don’t know.” he tells her, reaching out gently and pressing her knee back down to the ground, rubbing small, absent circles against the skin until she’s calmed. “It rains a little too much for my taste.”

“Positively dreary.” she agrees, her expression hardening after a beat. “I was-- I am going to kill her, you know. After. Or whenever I got the opportunity to.”

Bellamy nods, because finally,  _ finally  _ everything makes sense. “It’s why you agreed to do this in the first place.”

Clarke gives a shaky laugh, pulling away from him. The space between them is palpable, but he thinks he can still hear the sound of her breaths, harsh and ragged. He drops his eyes back to the fire.

“How are you planning to do it?”

She stops fidgeting, looks up. “What?”

“How are you planning to kill her?” he asks, flat. And mostly for something to do with his hands, he grabs a stick and pokes at the fire, the flames spiralling higher in the air.

“I was going to stay behind.” she says. “Pretend to have forgiven her. And when she finally falls asleep,” her bottom lip trembles, but her hands are steady when she looks at him, her eyes sparking like a flint. “I’ll slit her throat.”

There are numerous things he could say to her;  _ don’t  _ or  _ are you crazy,  _ or maybe  _ it’s suicide.  _ But he knows Clarke, knows that she’s smarter and more capable than anyone out there, that nothing he can ever say will dissuade her. With what she’s gone through, he doesn’t blame her for seeking revenge. It’s the one thing he understands, more than anything.

“Once you have the knife in your hand, remember to slash. Not stab.” he tells her instead, holding her gaze. There’s something that seems to have settled into his bones, something dark and hard and cold, the same thing he calls upon whenever he goes out on a job, when he leaves behind another body in the dirt.

_ The ground makes killers of us all _ , the words burn at the edge of his tongue, poised to spring.  _ Who we are, and who we need to be to survive are very different things. _

“Don’t hesitate.” he says, in the end. She’s sitting ramrod straight, jaw working imperceptibly, but he recognizes the look in her eyes. Understanding. Determination. Fear.

Bellamy closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “That’s going to be what gets you killed.”

 

+

Clarke spots the tower first. 

She grabs his hand before she takes off running, dragging him along despite his yelping. His feet are blistered and sore and they’ve run out of water hours back, and Bellamy just can’t summon the energy to be excited about a possibly dilapidated tower--

But there it is, spread out before them. An actual town, with houses and buildings and _people_. Clarke whoops, the sound caught between a half-sob and a laugh, and he can’t stop fucking smiling because they’ve made it, they’ve _made_ it.

“The first thing I’m going to do,” Bellamy promises her as they pick their way down the hill, hands still interlaced, “is get you a whole fucking chocolate cake. And then I’m going to bury my face in a plate of mashed potatoes.”

She nudges his shoulder, leans in. “Pray tell, how are you going to do that when we don’t have a single cent to our name?”

“Don’t forget who you’re with.” he grins, lurching unsteadily as the ground evens out below them. His lips brush against her cheek, fleeting, but she goes pink anyway and Bellamy has to hold back the laugh threatening to burst out of his chest.

They find a small diner tucked into a relatively empty corner street and he manages to wrangle some food for them, day-old pastries and muffins and bottles of water too. Clarke stops him from wolfing it all down, tears the bread into little strips for him to eat at measured intervals so they won’t make themselves sick.

“Or you could just feed them to me.” he suggests, and the exaggerated eye roll he receives just makes him grin wider.

It’s a little harder to get a boat  _ and  _ a map too, but Bellamy manages to secure a small fishing one, the map being a torn and tattered thing that has gone yellow from disuse. He gets everything in place while Clarke peruses it, tries not to feel too disheartened that it’d still take them a day at least to reach the ice court.

“It’s an odd time to be heading to the north.”

He glances over at the dock master, who insisted they call her Monroe despite the fact that people of her position were normally addressed formally. “Why is that?”

She shrugs, tilting her head. “Didn’t you hear? The queen is holding a public execution in two days. Several people from trikru were caught trying to smuggle a prisoner out.”

There’s something rattling in his lungs, a scream or a curse or something worst than that. Bellamy swallows, thrusts his shaking hands into the pockets of his pants. “Were they-- they were from trikru?”

“That’s what everyone assumes, considering the prisoner they were trying to retrieve was.”

“I see.” he says, numb. It’s a little hard to concentrate when all he can hear is Octavia’s scream in his ears, the phantom sensation of her nails pulling against his skin. His friends strung up to die, bodies swaying in the wind. “Thank you.” he forces out, before sprinting back to the boat, gunning the engine.

“What’s wrong?” Clarke asks as they pull away from the dock, his fingers white from grabbing onto the steering wheel. She gives a half-hearted wave to Monroe as she disappears from sight before directing her focus back on him. “ _ Bellamy _ . Talk to me.”

“They’re going to be executed.” he spits, trembling from barely restrained rage and panic, panic above everything else. “They went through with it, and they, they--”

“Hey.” The weight of her arm against his shoulder anchors him, forces him to suck in a deep breath. “We’re going to get them out, okay? But I need you to calm down first.”

“If we fail,” he shakes his head, releases the ragged noise clawing at his throat. “We  _ can’t  _ fail, Clarke. We can’t.”

Her fingers tighten over his shoulder, nails puncturing the thin fabric of his shirt. “We won’t.”

 

+

“Let’s go over it one more time.” 

The look she shoots him is exasperated, if not a little fond. “We’ve gone through this multiple times, Bellamy. You’re dead on your feet.”

“I’m fine.” he insists, even though his arms are aching from having driven the boat for hours, fingers clamped over the wheel so tightly he’s pretty sure they’ll snap off if he tried to move. “I want to be sure.”

“At least let me take over.” Clarke mutters, pushing at his foot with the toe of her boot.

He snorts, “Uh, according to my research, I know for a fact that you have no idea how to steer a boat. So, nope. Definitely not.”

“How hard can it be?” she grumbles, plopping down next to him. “You’re just going straight.”

“For  _ now, _ ” he says. It’s a relatively quiet stretch, so he’s mostly just bored and exhausted from all the consecutive hours of driving. It’s getting harder to pretend to  _ not _ pay attention to Clarke, considering the bench was built for one, and she has to perch awkwardly on his thigh to reach the wheel. He holds his breath at the contact, fights down the urge to curl his hand over her hip instead.

“Okay, first step.” Clarke continues, blithely unaware of the effect she has on him. “When do we get into position?”

“Eight chimes of the bell.” he recites. “I’ll take out the guards, you get the gate open.”

She shifts, her hair tickling his jaw. “Eight and a half chimes.”

“We start searching the complex. I’ll take the upper floors, you’ll handle the basement.”

Her breath is warm against the side of his face, her fingers coming to rest over his on the steering wheel. “What do we do when we hear nine chimes?”

Bellamy swallows, dares himself to turn over, to look at her. Their noses bump, and he wonders if the sharp intake of her breath is enough to drown out the hammering of his pulse. He wets his lips, “Rendezvous by the entrance.”

“Nine and a half chimes.” Her eyes flicker down to his mouth, lingering. When she speaks again, her voice is dark, slow, each word precise and controlled. “What’s next?”

He knows the steps, knows what comes next. But there’s a fog rolling over his thoughts, everything falling out of focus except for her. “Clarke,” he says instead, and it’s the sound of her name that pushes her off the edge and into his, her lips burning over his and her breath ragged against his cheek.

She kisses like how he thought she would; furious and unyielding, fingers tangling in his hair and teeth scraping against skin. He lets go of the wheel, sneaks his hands under her shirt to graze the jut of her shoulder blades, the curve of her shoulder.

“I’m going to crash this boat if you don’t stop.” he murmurs, pulling back just far enough so their foreheads still touch, “Seriously. We’re already been in one shipwreck. We don’t need to be in another.”

“Doesn’t this come with auto-pilot, or something?” Clarke laughs, dropping her head back down to his shoulder, burying her face into his neck.

He sets one hand back on the wheel, delves the other into her mess of curls, stroking the back of her neck gently. “I wish.”

She noses his collarbone, drops a kiss onto the hollow of his throat. Sweet and soft and entirely not what he was expecting. “I had to do that.” she says, quiet. “Just once.”

_ More than once,  _ he wants to tell her.  _ You can kiss me whenever you like.  _ But nothing’s certain, not anymore, and they both knew that already. Better terrible truths than lies. 

They stay like this throughout the night, wrapped up in each other. He shows her how to steer, how to take the turns, slow and careful. She kisses him whenever she gets the chance, tries to find out all of his ticklish spots through trial and error. It’s not peace- it’ll never be until he gets everyone home- but it’s calm and safe and  _ easy _ . They could pretend, if only for a few more hours.

And when he cuts the engine; with the pre-morning light filtering through the dusty windows, turning everything gold, he finally knows what to say.

“May we meet again.” Bellamy tells her, pressing one last kiss against her forehead. It was something they liked to say among the Skaikru, not so much parting as it was a promise: we will see each other again. I’ll find you. Wait for me.

“I know,” Clarke murmurs, before he can explain. “Bellamy, I know what it means.” Her hands are cool against his face when she surges up to kiss him, hard.

“May we meet again.” she says after they break apart, and somewhere in the distance, the bells begin to chime.

 

+

It turns out, Raven still has one last card up her sleeve. 

“I can’t believe,” he struggles to catch his breath, hefts her more securely in his arms as they jog down the dock, “I can’t fucking believe you guys  _ blew up  _ the ice court.”

She laughs, the sound hoarse and low and downright ecstatic, “I built a bomb out of a  _ tin can _ once. Give me some credit.”

“Still.” he shakes his head, sets her down securely onto the seat before strapping himself in, “It’s real fucking impressive. You might have outdone yourself for this one.”

“Just start the fucking engine already!” Miller yells, dragging a limping Monty behind him. Octavia brings up the rear, brandishing a jagged shard of mirror all while supporting a bleeding, hulking guy on her arm. Bellamy blanches, cranks the engine.

“Uh, Octavia. Who the fuck is this?”

She shoots him a glare, her face smeared with ash and blood and dust. “This is Lincoln. And we’re going to help him now, okay?”

“By returning him to Lexa?”

“By keeping him alive.” she says through gritted teeth, hands planted on her hips as if daring anyone else to argue. “He’s a good guy, Bell.”

He swears under his breath, “So what, we’re  _ fugitives  _ now, too?”

She opens her mouth to argue, but is quickly cut off by the sound of footsteps, Clarke bursting into the room like she still has a few guards on her tail. “Drive.” she snarls, and he pushes off, the boat’s engine roaring as they speed away, further and further away from the black smoke hanging in the air.

There’s blood on the sleeve of his jacket, splattered on her face too, and he reaches out instinctively, cupping her face when she slumps down next to him.

“I’m fine,” she says, weary, resting her head against his shoulder. “Hurts a little, but I’m okay.”

“I’m glad.” He ducks down to press a kiss against the corner of her eye, wherever he could reach, “You had me worried for a second there.”

“When did this happen?” Miller sniggers, and he can make out the muffled sound of a high five from behind him. Probably Raven.

“Shut up.” he retorts, and Clarke nuzzles his cheek, laughs. “Don’t we have more pressing concerns, considering everyone is going to be looking for us?”

“Oh, just Lexa and Queen Nia.” Monty chirps, beaming with false cheer. “No big deal. We can handle them.”

“We can deal with them later.” Octavia interjects, her hands still braced on Lincoln’s shoulders, “We need to get to a safe place, take care of all our injuries.”

“And where would you suggest?” Miller mutters. “Considering you’re the one who put a target on our heads.”

“ _ Enough _ .” Bellamy snaps, his head pounding something fierce. “Shut up and let me think.”

Thankfully, no one fights him on this, the only sound being the rumbling of the engine below them and the crinkle the map makes when Clarke unfolds it carefully between her fingers. “I know a place.” she says, her voice tremulous, though she’s smiling when he turns to look at her.

He reaches out to sweep a lock of hair out of her eyes, tucks it behind her ear. “Where to, Captain?”

“It’s not too far from here, a pretty small place.” Her smile grows wider, her voice steadier. “Lots of trees, nice and quiet. I know a few people, they’ll help us.”

“Okay.” He drops his hand down to her jaw instead, smearing a spot of blood before rubbing it away with the side of his thumb. And in a voice only meant for her to hear, “You sure?” 

“Bell,” she murmurs, and he thinks he likes the way she says her name, like they have miles and miles to go. “I’m ready. Take me home.”

**Author's Note:**

> *continues to ignore canon until the end of time*


End file.
